


on sickness, on death

by Yuripaws



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Brooding, Gen, Light Angst, Sickfic, Survivor Guilt, yuri is sick and mopes around his room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:21:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23149942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuripaws/pseuds/Yuripaws
Summary: A brief illness sends Yuri spiraling.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 35





	on sickness, on death

**Author's Note:**

> hello fire emblem community
> 
> i like, did this little drabble thing a few weeks ago that i then expanded on so here it is i guess lmao
> 
> yuri just barely survived a plague that decimated most of his town, so i hc that he's terrified of getting sick
> 
> i realized quite belatedly that this might be a strange thing to post at this time in particular due to recent events, but i wrote this a while back and wanna. toss this up here as my first fe fic

Restless footsteps echo off stone walls as Yuri paces in his chambers. Nice little place -- real cozy. Quiet, with the exception of his damn feet. Safe, although boring as all hell. But... private. Isolated.

It’s what he needs, really. Someplace where people won’t come near, won’t bother him, won’t, goddess forbid, try to _console_ him. He’s having none of that, thank you _so_ very much. He isn’t a child, no matter how much his illness makes him feel like a wailing infant. If one more person tries to coddle him, he may go mad.

 _Stay in bed. Rest. The sickness will pass -- just go to_ bed, _Yuri!_

Not a chance in hell, though the concern is touching. Mostly. He’s certainly cracked a smile or two at the insistent but oddly endearing nagging at his door. His darling Wolves hadn’t taken long to drop the whole ‘rest’ thing to come at him from different angles.

_Hey, pal, that fever ain't gonna sweat itself out! Come hit a few things with me and you'll be as good as new!_

Yuri has much cause to question Balthus' medical expertise, but that _somehow_ manages to sound more appealing than whatever the hell Constance has been attempting.

_Never fear, for I, Constance von Nuvelle, have come to cure your ailment once and for all! But first, I will need you to step outside so that I may experim-- I mean, so that I may use my spellwork to aid in your recovery!_

Yeah, he hadn't fallen for that one. Knowing her, he’d probably get turned into a tomato. Or an unspeakable horror. Or Hubert. The odds are often in his favor, so the fact that he’s balking at the prospect truly says something here.

_Yuri-bird? Come on, cut it out. You'll never get better if you don't get some help. Also, I'm losing my mind dealing with Coco blowing things up, and I'm pretty sure you're B's impulse control. Really gonna need you to get out here soon._

What a merry band of fools. But they're _his_ merry band of fools, and, in all honesty, he could probably do with a little well-deserved scolding. He won’t listen, but the sentiment would be nice. Maybe that’s selfish of him. Ah, well.

He pauses in his pacing to stare at his door. No one’s come to check on him all day. Good. Maybe they’ve mistaken his silence for sleep.

Ha, as if. Sleep doesn’t come easy to him. Not since the night he’d thought would be his last. To just slip away like that -- and while ill, for hell's sake -- is uncomfortable, unthinkable. Terrifying. Not at all worth the risk, even for someone who thrives on danger.

Goddess, but he wishes he could roam, wishes he could slink into the tavern to drink until he can't stand, or haunt the library like a pale ghost caught in the flicker of candlelight. Anything would be a lot more fucking fun than moping in his room because he caught a _widdle cold._

Oh, he hates this. His knuckles turn white and the tender skin of his palms grows red beneath the press of his nails. He really needs a trim, haha. _Damn it all._ No amount of distraction can help him now. His hands are shaking badly. Beads of sweat break from his brow. A tightness in his chest is the only warning he has to prepare himself for a coughing spell.

His lungs claw their way up his throat with each braying breath, and he leans heavily against his writing desk to brace himself against the onslaught. 

Weak. He's _weak._ Not as a person, a fighter, a leader -- just to get that straight. At this moment, and this moment only, he’s frail and pathetic of body and mind. 

This illness has left him weak the way the plague had nearly left him dead.

Blood doesn't faze him. He tells himself this as his hand comes away flecked with red. Nothing new. He's seen this before. Same shit, different death.

 _I'm not dying,_ he thinks firmly. As highly as he thinks of himself, he can be a real dumbass. He closes his eyes and sighs slowly, careful not to trigger another fit. In, out. In, out. It’s almost calming. See? Was that so hard? He must be kinder to himself. It's what the elder would have wanted, after all. The selfless man who'd healed him, _saved him,_ before passing on. That man had been more of a father than the one he'd never known.

When Yuri finally opens his eyes, he spots the small chest he keeps on his desk. Nothing valuable inside -- to a low-life thief, that is. All that’s in there is an old and battered notebook. He withdraws and holds it so very carefully, as though the precious memories within may shatter should he drop them.

A child's scribbles fill the many pages. Senseless ink scratchings take form into something actually legible. Sort of. His penmanship has improved, at the very least.

His fingers still on a blank page -- although, 'blank' is perhaps not the best descriptor.

How old are the dried and faded blood splatters marring this yellowed sheet? How long has it been since that first and fateful coughing fit? The plague’s onset had struck so swiftly and mercilessly that Yuri hardly had time to snatch up this prized possession as his mother whisked him away in search of help. 

Why is he thinking of this? None of it matters. Looking back to the past is useless. It's never done shit for him, so why should he return the favor? That’s always been his creed.

Goddess, but he's shaking badly. He should go out and eat, or have someone get him tea. Something. Anything. But he won't expose anyone else to this illness. Not his people -- whether they be in Abyss, or the monastery, or beyond that.

And maybe it's stupid as all hell, but Yuri tenses at every cough and sniffle from any of the denizens down here. This section of Abyss is small, dark, dank. The perfect place for a plague to catch and spread like wildfire throughout the rest of these sprawling ruins.

_It isn't a plague, it isn't a plague, you aren't dying._

Yeah, yeah, yeah. He's getting real tired of being lectured by himself. With what is probably the least grace of anyone in Fódlan, he stumbles toward his bed and hits it harder than he'd meant to. He rolls over onto his back with a small groan and stares up blankly at the ceiling. It's in need of a bit of cleaning -- dear goddess, the _cobwebs._ A snort slips out of him, though he's anything but amused on the inside. _Damnit_ . His head is pounding, his brow is heated and sweat-slicked and for fuck's _sake,_ will the room _please_ stop spinning? Maybe if he passes out, he won't have to deal with any of this.

_Stay awake, stay alive, don't let it take you._

Panic seizes him in the midst of his fever. No, that's a terrible idea. He doesn't want to die, not again, and where is his mother? The elder? He'll never see his Wolves again if he lets the illness take him. Who the hell's going to protect those damned fools?

Could this really be the end? The goddess had been denied her pound of flesh the day the old man had snatched a little boy's soul from her grasp. She could return at any moment to claim him.

But he doesn't allow himself to be indebted to anyone. _Ever._ And that's always the single thought that keeps him going. He doesn't owe a damn thing -- least of all his life. The goddess will have to fight harder to outsmart this trickster. 

A sigh that’s more of a sob escapes his lips, quiet and shuddering. He’s so tired. So very tired.

 _Rest easy, little one, you're safe,_ a familiar voice rings in his ears. Great, now he's hearing shit. He’s officially lost it. How long until he begins haunting the hollow and hallowed halls of Garreg Mach, lamenting lives lost so many years ago? He nearly snorts again, and a faint smile curls his lips as sleep drags him down. 

Yeah, he'll be back. He never loses a bet.


End file.
